


Aram's DMV Adventure

by NamelesslyNightlock



Series: The DMV's FBI (and Sometimes Criminal) Encounters [2]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Warning for Fandom References, dmv adventures, seriously you have been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As with most things currently in Aram’s life, the blame for the entire situation could be laid squarely on Reddington. Red, no doubt, would probably disagree, blaming terrorists or the government or masseurs on some out-of-the-way tropical island.</p><p>Regardless, the situation remained the same; Aram was in the DMV. He had been there for a rather long time... and there was little indication that he would be able to get out any time soon. </p><p>With great boredom comes an even greater need to find a source of entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aram's DMV Adventure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsicalwombat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalwombat/gifts).



> This was my response to whimsicalwombat's challenge of 'write me a Blacklist fic.' The challenge was issued past midnight. I was running on copius amounts of tea. Then this happened.

Over an hour. Seventy four minutes. More than that, probably, because Aram was absolutely positive that the second hand of the clock mounted on the grubby wall in front of him was especially sluggish. Perhaps it was done so the people here waited longer than they thought they had. Waiting always seems longer than it is, after all.

The second hand had made another full round before Aram looked away, his eyes stinging after following its slow movement. He’d lost count a few times, so he couldn’t be sure if it was slow or not –he wasn’t going to try again, at any rate. The stifling boredom was preferable to red eyes, after all. Some of the guys in here looked the type to try something with a guy who seemed like he was crying, and really, Aram was willing to bet many of the people here would try _anything_ regardless just for something to do.

Cursing Reddington for his insane plans and all the household (and _expensive_ ) items they required, Aram briefly considered checking his phone for the time, but dismissed the idea quickly. Aram had spent perhaps a half hour engrossed on his phone already – not even counting the ten or so minutes he’d been talking to Margery – and he’d already run his battery down past comfortable levels. He didn’t want to be stuck in this place without a method of communication.

He’d been pretty upset at first, when his phone interrupted his game of Candy Crush to let him know he’d only 10% Battery remaining. His phone had been fully charged that morning, and it usually lasted him the entire day. He had not expected to be stuck at the DMV for quite so long.

Well. That morning, he hadn’t been expecting to be at the DMV at all, to be totally honest.

As with most things currently in Aram’s life, the blame for the entire situation could be laid squarely on Reddington. Red, no doubt, would probably disagree, blaming terrorists or the government or masseurs on some out-of-the-way tropical island. Liz, Aram knew, would blame Ressler. Ressler would place the blame on Dembe, and – actually – Aram didn’t know Dembe all that well. But he probably had someone else to place the blame on as well.

But none of that really mattered, did it? Because of everyone, it was Aram that was stuck in this festering cesspit of a government facility and really, he knew how low government budgets were – he’d had the same keyboard with the sticky backspace button for years – but surely this place could afford, maybe, a janitor?

Well, Red had warned him to bring a snack. At the time Aram had thought the criminal had been joking. It always was difficult to tell with Red. But as it turned out he really should have listened. The vending machines were all out of order, and while the guy Aram had affectionately named Steve about twenty minutes ago was eying up the glass on them a little speculatively, Aram wasn’t going to give stealing anything a go. Not if it meant he might be escorted out of here before he got his turn – or worse, if he was made to stay longer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aram saw a flash of red. Along with every other person sitting (or standing , poor bastards, or, in Gerald’s case, lying on the floor) in the room, Aram immediately looked up.

_342._

Well. Great.

To Aram’s left, a young man jumped out of his seat with a grin, holding his ticket in the air as if he had won the lotto. Aram knew the guy, affectionately named Jack – they’d bonded perhaps forty minutes in through mutual frowns and disapproving shrugs – and he knew that Jack was wanting to get home by five for a date. The guy hadn’t had high hopes.

Aram glanced at his own ticket, and then slouched back in his seat, once more in tandem with everyone else in the room.

This was all Reddington’s fault.

You see, approximately two hours ago, Aram had been sitting in his rather uncomfortable but now preferable to hard plastic office chair, tapping away at his keyboard. It had been a quiet day in the Post Office – Ressler had managed to refrain from antagonizing Samar, and the two had been enjoying a quiet conversation about something or other in the break room. Cooper was up writing reports on the terrorist they’d put away the day before, and Aram was quite happy to be slowly downloading the next season of Tom Baker’s Doctor. It was quiet. It was actually… nice.

But of course, things are never quiet for long in the Post Office.

Liz had run in, all in a tizzy, calling for everyone to assemble in the war room, saying Red had got her a case.

She had been lying.

Well, okay, that is perhaps a little harsh. But considering his current predicament, Aram thought he was pretty well licensed to be a little harsh.

When Liz had them all together, she pulled up some images on the overheads of some banks. Turns out, Red had a lead on this crew who were known for getting into banks.

Turns out, Red’s lead was on the location of their bodies.

The crew had managed to blow themselves up, or get themselves blown up, whichever. Red didn’t seem to mind, but he did seem think that the FBI should be worried about what they stole during their last heist.

Of course, that was when Ressler made an offhand comment about Liz knowing all about bank heists, which Liz replied to with a snarky remark which Ressler took offense to and as justification to snark back with something about pregnancy hormones which caused Samar to jump in to Liz’s defence and really the entire thing was looking a little messy until Red walked in himself.

It’s not often problems are solved with one of the FBI’s most wanted walking into the FBI.

 _Wait_.

Actually, never mind that.

So Red walked into the Post Office, Dembe at his heels, chatting away nonsensically about some guy he knew back god knows when until Samar calmed down and Ressler’s bravado was reduced to an annoyed frown. Then Red told them exactly what Liz had, only he added on that the safety deposit box the crew had ‘liberated’ belonged to a highly skilled hacker – Aram had to stop himself from asking if this guy was the Blacklist too – and that it had contained a USB drive that could be used to link any computer in the world to the nearest NATO satellite.

Probably _not_ a good thing for a terrorist to get their hands on.

Of course, this might not be a problem, because the USB _was_ safely locked away in an undisclosed location and it _didn’t_ give the user control over the satellite – just access. But it did get a hacker more than half way. Furthermore, the crew were not the sharpest knives in the drawer, hence the blowing up, and they probably hadn’t hidden their tracks very well.

They’d also put the drive up for sale on what Aram was pretty sure was the criminal version of eBay.

According to Red, if they didn’t act soon, it would be gone in 48 hours.

This was the point in the conversation where Aram felt the need to point out that he was the IT guy on the team. You know, the sit in the background, tap away at keyboards sort of guy. He got the urge to point this out a lot, but he didn’t actually voice it often. He normally didn’t need to, in the end, though it had served him well during the strategy meeting that had resulted in the kidnapping of the Director of the CIA.

He thought it would probably serve him well now.

He was wrong.

Ressler was worse than usual. He called this Aram’s first undercover mission, though he really wasn’t going in undercover at all. Red said he’d given his contact the heads up, though he’d have to wait in line like normal – after all, it was only polite. Red laid down the rules, telling Aram that he’d have to go in, sit quiet – oh, and did anyone have a watch? Red really needed a watch for his super (probably) evil plan to work. Not thinking, Aram had given Red his own watch, only realizing later that Red had been wearing one himself and wondering with trepidation what on Earth Red needed two watches for.

He didn’t understand why they had picked him for the job, not really. The others said they _would_ have gone, but Aram was obviously the best choice. So excited to actually be considered the man for the job for something other than looking at internet history, he said yes without a second thought. They told him he’d need to be briefed, and being the poor, naïve being he had been two hours ago, so cute, Aram agreed to allow Ressler to ‘brief’ him. Bad move. Really.

Ressler droned on and on, and Aram tuned most of it out. He knew not to antagonize anyone, not to make eye contact, not to stand out. Honestly, it was like Ressler thought he’d never even caught the Metro. It was all the same, really.

Unfortunately, the zone out meant he missed where he was going. He knew he wasn’t a field agent, and he was told he was only getting an address. Aram was under the impression he was headed for the post office – the real one – or something like that.

Not the DMV.

When Aram realized, he was already on his way there in the backseat of Reddington’s car.

He’d been to the DMV before, of course. Once. It had not been a nice experience – there was a reason he rode his bike everywhere.

When he walked into the waiting room, Aram wondered if there even existed a more desolate place in the world.

The faces looking up at him were all bleak, like they didn’t have any drop of hope left. They were broken, sad people, giving up on all they had. As he moved through the sea of plastic seats and forgotten dreams he was met with looks of pity.

Aram shrugged, took a ticket, and sat in one of the few empty seats.

He didn’t even look at the digital numbers above him, choosing to pull out his phone and open up his emails. He remembered the dirtiness of the place from last time, and much preferred to be distracted. Once he had read and reread every email from the past three days, Aram exited the app and moved instead to a game, deciding that flicking pieces of virtual paper into a trashcan was better than staring around aimlessly.

It was about at this point that he noticed the muttering. He shook it off at first, but now that he was aware of it Aram found it difficult to ignore. Looking up from his game, Aram quickly located the source of the constant noise.

About three seats to the left was a man, maybe thirty years old. He was clutching his ticket in his left hand and was pressing his right into his knees, all hunched over like a chiropractors worst nightmare and periodically shaking his head. The muttering was too quiet to make out, but just loud enough to be irritating.

Noticing that he was being watched, the guy glanced at Aram and grinned. Then he spoke at slightly higher volume so his words were perfectly clear.

“We all end up at the DMV in the end,” he said ominously. Aram quickly busied himself again with his phone, trying his best to ignore the man’s cackle.

In the aisle opposite, a young girl started to giggle, pulling Aram’s attention from his phone again. The girl’s mother tried to shush her, but the girl couldn’t seem to stop.

“No matter what choices you make,” she said, still giggling, “No matter what details you alter… we will always end up-“ she paused, her whole body wracking with giggles as she tried to force out the final word. “Here!” She managed to get it out, and was now so overcome with laughter her eyes were starting to shine with tears. The girl’s mother now had her head in her hands, shaking it slowly.

Aram wondered worriedly how long they had been sitting there.

“Hey,” said another girl sitting behind the first. “Hey, you. I understood that reference.”

The first girl – Aram decided to name her Jane, for ease of differentiation – stopped laughing immediately. She turned slowly to the girl behind her – _Amy_ , Aram thought – wiping tears from her eyes, and spoke slowly and calmly as if she were attempting another language and wanted to be sure she was understood.

“Hey,” Jane said. “Cool shoelaces.”

It was possibly the strangest conversation Aram had seen, although what came next was possibly stranger.

“Thanks,” Amy replied, entirely serious. “I stole them from the President.”

Aram’s eyes bulged, and he couldn’t even attempt to hide that he was eavesdropping when they continued on.

“No way! Dude, it’s great to meet you!”

“You too! Did you see this week’s ep?”

“Oh my god, I thought I was going to die.”

“Me too. That final scene – that was just cruel. What the hell do the writers think they’re doing?”

The two girls continued on the same tangent, Jane’s mother and the man Aram assumed was Amy’s father exchanging exasperated looks.

Shaking the oddity from his head, Aram looked back down, noticing, not surprisingly, that his game had timed out. With a sigh, he flicked back to his homepage to find another app to look at.

“Oh my,” said a voice to his right. “That is a beautiful lady. Is she your girlfriend?”

Really, really hoping it wasn’t but strongly suspecting it was him being spoken to, Aram looked up.

Leaning towards him in the seat directly next to his own was an old lady, probably well past eighty. She was giving him a toothy grin, and Aram resigned himself to what he knew would happen next.

“No, ma’am, just a friend.”

“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me – do I look important to you?”

Aram was a little afraid to answer, and the woman merely smiled wider.

“It’s okay – I know the jacket is posh, but really dear would someone who was supposed to be ma’amed have been sitting in this place for an hour and a half?”

“No, I suppose- wait, an _hour and a half?”_

“I’m number 254, dear,” she said sadly, as if she were informing Aram that she had cancer. Aram frowned, not understanding, until she gestured up to the bright red numbers shining above them all like some sort of sick beacon.

 _229_ , it read. Aram couldn’t help but gape.

“It’s alright,” the lady consoled, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it looks – they were stuck on 183 for over half an hour, that shouldn’t happen again. And besides, that poor man over there said it was at 1746 when he got here this morning. Apparently they reset it every now and then. Perhaps time will move faster than you think.”

“Hopefully they won’t reset it before it gets past 300,” Aram said sadly, looking at the number on his own ticket. The unfortunately _high_ number. “Though I doubt they would be that disorganized.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said the lady. “That poor man’s ticket says number 1752.”

Not quite believing her, Aram looked over to ‘that poor man’ the lady had been gesturing to. Turns out, she was pointing at the muttering man Aram had noticed before. Well. He supposed that all made a little more sense now.

“My name is Margery,” said the lady, holding out a gnarled hand. “It’s nice to get to know people when you’re stuck in these situations, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Aram sighed.

“Now, tell me about that girl of yours.”

This, of course, led to an entirely awkward explanation of how Samar was just Aram’s friend, really, the photograph that served as the home screen on his phone was just from when they had hung out after work, not on a date. And no, he most certainly had not bought a ring yet – they were having a bit of a fight, anyway, and things were still awkward despite Samar knowing Aram had gotten her back her job.

This led to another conversation about feelings and winning back a woman’s heart, and while Aram might have discarded all of the information about how to get her back into bed and hopefully depositing part of his memory with it, he did take some of the advice to heart. It had to work with friendships too, right?

Soon enough, Margery grew tired of fawning over Aram’s picture and was distracted when some poor, poor woman walked into the DMV with a pram. Of course, it turned out the whole thing was ruse so the woman could skive a seat off someone and the pram actually contained a Chihuahua, which greatly lowered Aram’s sympathy to the woman but greatly raised his opinion of her sneakiness. It was around the time that Chihuahua stuck its head out of the pram to steal a kid’s peanut butter sandwich as he wandered past that Aram’s phone started giving him the battery alert, and he decided that perhaps people watching was a better method of passing the time.

Half an hour into the wait, and Gerald – the muttering, voice of doom guy – declared that the pressure was too much and slid down on his seat until he was lying on the floor. Aram pulled a face, not wanting to think about what had been on that floor, but the thought didn’t last long as a near stampede occurred with the rush of people heading to the now empty seat.

Initially, it looked like Charles, the guy in the expensive-looking-but-too-small-suit was going to get there first, but he tripped over Gerald and Jessica, a mousy woman in her twenties got the seat, grinning at her victory. As she raised her hands with relief at being off her feet, Aram caught a glimpse of her number. She definitely deserved a seat. No doubt she would be here a while.

And at least Gerald stopped muttering and fell asleep. Well. It looked that way anyway, though subsequent events proved otherwise.

A slight commotion occurred when Amy’s number was called and she had to leave her new friend, but she shouted something that sounded like _cassies’ broken wings_ over her shoulder to which Jane replied with something Aram vaguely recognized as a Harry Potter reference before Amy was pulled into the office.

At one point, a boy who could be no more than twenty pulled a leaflet out from under his chair and folded a paper airplane, sending it floating through the air. Aram decided he would be Joe. Greg, sitting on the other side of the room, also found a leaflet and let his paper plane join Joe’s.

Soon, there were six or seven planes in the air, all being continuously picked up and thrown into the air. Aram grinned as he launched one himself – he didn’t think he’d ever seen such a great scene of spontaneous cooperation.

Throughout the entire thing Gerald remained on the floor, occasionally throwing up a plane if it landed on him but otherwise completely ignoring the proceedings.

Unfortunately, it was not to last. Natalie, probably out of her mind with the length of time she had been stuck in a plastic chair, jumped out of her seat the first time a plane headed in her direction and ran down the aisle with it, singing a song Aram didn’t recognize.

“AMELIA EARHART FEARLESS FLYER!” she sang, skipping along. “FLIES WHERE OTHER FLYERS DAREN’T DARE! AMELIA EARHART FEARLESS FLYER-“

A soft crunching sound was the only monument to the poor plane’s passing. Natalie stared at the crumple of paper in the big, burly, bald bully’s hand and decided it was better not to try it. She turned to go back to her seat, but it had already been taken by one of the standers.

“Up where there’s adventure in the air,” Natalie finished sadly, lying down on the floor next to Gerald.

Gerald opened one eye and looked over her curiously before giving an awkward horizontal shrug and closing it again.

Once again Aram felt a moment of worry for all the germs on the floor, but didn’t need to bother. Two more number changes later and Natalie was gone.

It was almost sad, really, the passing of the numbers, the ticking of the clock, the leaving of all these people Aram was slowly growing closer to in their combined boredom. It was the perfect metaphor for life, in a way- sitting still, not really accomplishing anything, making friends, witnessing a couple of train wrecks and then- well. Then you move on.

Wasn’t that a depressing thought.

Shaking the thought out of his head, Aram returned to his people watching.

And here he was. Seventy four, no, seventy _five_ minutes now after sitting on the plastic chair – according to the wall clock, anyway – and all he had to show for it was a crumpled piece of paper. The ink on the paper was starting to run from having been held in his hand for so long, but Aram couldn’t make himself let go. It was the only lifeline he had in this place.

A crash made Aram look to the entrance. Seemed like Steve decided to go for the vending machines after all. Turns out, vending machine glass is stronger than the human shoulder. Good to know.

Steve had already lost his seat, taken by Larissa. He was currently staggering away from the machine, grasping his shoulder. Aram wondered what he’d do. From Aram’s experience, he knew Steve had three choices. He could join the standers and wait for the rush when someone stood up; he could push someone else out of a seat, like Trevor had quarter of an hour ago; or he could join Gerald.

Only Natalie had taken that option so far.

Aram was distracted from Steve again by the numbers.

  1. _349_.



Dear God, he was never getting out of here.

“Aha! Got it!” Aram didn’t even turn this time. The first few times it happened he looked, but after Tracy finished the fourth page in her Sudoku book he stopped wondering what she was so happy about. _Actually_ …

Curiosity and a need for entertainment got the better of him, and he did look over to Tracy. She had taken Margery’s seat when the old lady had moved into the office, nearly knocking the poor woman over in the process. Aram couldn’t remember if she had been at the start of the book originally, but Tracy was currently on puzzle number 14. She was clearly nothing if not persistent.

Aram sighed, thinking again of Margery. It would have been nice to chat some more, but when she left he hadn’t thought to get even her surname, and he had long since learnt that when people made the walk from the offices to the exit after their turn they were to be avoided. They were dead to those still waiting. To interact would make one a social Pariah.

_350._

Aram was going to kill Reddington, he really was. Or Ressler. Or Liz. Or Cooper, even, it didn’t really matter. Well, not kill. But someone owed him a bagel, that was for sure. He was never, ever going to go on a mission again.

Ever.

Probably.

It was entirely too much stress.

Aram watched the stampede again, his face expressionless as some new stander claimed the seat previously occupied by Greg. The numbers glared down at the scene, the ever present red beams of light, shining on them like they were going to bring some sort of revelation.

The numbers that they all gazed at in hope, that they all wished would grant them their deepest desire. Every person here praying that the numbers would become what they needed to get away.

Shaking his head, Aram wondered if perhaps he should look at something else. At this rate, the number 350 was probably burned into his eyelids. But anything was better than staring at the slowly spinning second hand on the clock, and Aram was quickly coming to believe that nothing these people could do would surprise him.

Besides, the numbers were almost comforting. They offered hope where nothing else did. They changed more than anything else, other than the clock, and they signified so much more than a time piece. People leaving. Seats changing. Standers sitting. It was a circle crafted only by the guidance of the numbers, and nothing else in the room mattered. Not really.

The numbers changed rather suddenly, and Aram blinked at the oddness of looking at a new pattern.

A new number.

He blinked again.

  1. _351_.



No way. This wasn’t happening.

Slowly, Aram glanced down at his ticket.

_351._

Was this how zoo animals felt when they were released into the wild? Completely bewildered and not quite sure what to do, Aram stood up. The fast pattering of many feet caused Aram to move to the side quickly, retaining enough brain power to remember what happened to Margery and getting out of the way as a stander threw himself into his seat.

“Well go on,” said Tracy, giving Aram a little shove. From this angle Aram could see she was wearing a name tag, one of those magnetic ones receptionists have. It labeled her as _Patricia._ Huh.

It was strange, that small difference. A woman who had been Tracy to Aram for the past half hour – perhaps longer, who know how much time had passed – actually being named Patricia was enough to jolt Aram out of his little funk, and he remembered why he was there.

Right. USB. If it hadn’t already been taken. For all Aram could tell, days might have passed while he was stuck in this less fun Lotus Casino of a government building.

Moving away from his chair, Aram felt he should mark his passing with _something_. Not able to think of anything monumental, Aram settled for simple.

“See ya , Gerald,” he said as he stepped over the prone form on the floor.

To his credit, Gerald wasn’t phased at all. He opened his eyes, gave Aram a lazy salute and replied: “Good luck out there, Shaun.”

And that was that.

Stepping into the office was like moving into another world. Not because it was any cleaner – it wasn’t. But because there was only one person there.

And Aram already knew his name.

“Glen?” he asked. “Glen Carter?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Red sent you, huh?”

“Um, yes, Reddington wants you to find-“

“I know, I know, he’s been texting. He’ll be here in five minutes.”

Aram frowned in confusion. “Excuse me? I- What? _Texting?_ ”

“He’ll be here in five minutes. Now stop yammering on and take a seat while I have a break. It’ll be nice to get a rest from all the stupid questions for a while.” With that, Glen faced his computer and began to type, not sparing Aram another glance.

Not totally sure what was going on but thinking that if this guy was a friend of Red’s he should probably just do as he was told, Aram took a seat in the horribly familiar plastic chair in front of Glen’s desk. He glad at least for the change in scenery, though he did feel a little guilty that was taking up time someone else could be using for their appointment.

Thankfully, true to Glen’s word Red walked into the office five minutes later. He nodded to Aram but walked straight past him, stopping in front of Glen with an inscrutable look on his face. Glen didn’t answer; he barely even stopped whatever he was doing on the computer. He merely grabbed a file from a drawer in his desk and handed it over.

“Thank you,” said Red.

“Yeah, you better be,” Glen grumbled. “And if you think this isn’t the last time you’re getting out of going through the queue-“

“Last time you made me wait half an hour,” Red complained. Aram almost choked, and Red turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” said Glen, jabbing a stubby finger at Aram. “Your boy here knows exactly what sort of preferential treatment that is. And how do you repay me? By sending a placeholder. Now, get out of my office, I have other people to see, better things to be doing.” Red turned to leave, and Glen shouted once more. “Hey, I’m still expecting those two women, don’t flake out on me, Red!”

Red rolled his eyes and walked out, jerking his head so Aram knew he was expected to follow. Aram chose to ignore the two fluffy dogs Dembe carried into the office as they left. He was probably better not knowing.

He felt rather like the social Pariah he knew he would be on the walk to the exit. Not even Tracy – Patricia – acknowledged him. Despite this, Aram felt it difficult not to smile when Jessica jumped out of her chair and all but danced to the office.

Steping outside was like entering another word, and Aram had to blink a few times to adjust to the sunlight. It really was stranger; he’d almost expected it to be dark. Aram spent the first few minutes in Reddington’s car simply rejoicing in the soft seat. Of course, then he remembered he was in _Reddington’s car_ and decided answers were needed.

“I needed a placeholder,” Red answered dismissively, not even looking away from the file. “Glen only talks to me if I wait in line, but I had other things to do today. Thank you, Aram, for waiting in the line for me.”

It took all Aram had to not simply sit and gape.

“You sent me in there for no reason?” he asked disbelievingly. And the others must have known, too – no wonder Ressler had that smirk on his face as he told Aram to stay silent.

“Were you not listening, Aram?” asked Red in what could only be exasperation, but in Aram’s opinion couldn’t be, because what did Red have to be exasperated about? “I did important work this morning – I made sure my contacts knew that I was thinking of buying the device to discourage any other sellers, I found the dogs and I managed to get your team to the location of the dead crew. They were able to uncover evidence that no _doubt_ will help solve multiple other robberies, and uncovered the code for the safe where the device is being kept. Meanwhile, you got to sit down in a safe environment and relax. Now remind me; what is it you have complain about?”

Aram sighed, and looked away. It was true that he had been merely sitting while the others were probably risking their lives. But he thought of poor Gerald lying on the floor, 1400 numbers away from his turn in the office, and Aram found himself unable to decide which job would be worse.

“What’s in the file?” he asked, hoping he had at least accomplished something of use.

“Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Red said, folding it up and tucking it away. As he did so, Aram caught a glimpse of a photograph of a woman with red hair, and the name _Vasilia Patinka_. It didn’t seem related to the robbery.

“It really was for nothing,” Aram said in a small voice.

“Nothing is for nothing, Aram,” Red replied. “Who was it that said that? Some Chinese thinker, probably. Regardless, it is quite a good philosophy to live by. But don’t worry, you weren’t in there as long as you could be. Did you see the poor fool on the ground, clutching the ticket with the number 175 on it? The poor man must have gone to the bathroom and missed his number, or perhaps fell asleep. He’ll probably be there all week. Tragic, really. All that time lost.”

Aram winced, not being able to imagine what it must be like to miss your number, to have to get another one and begin the wait again. How horrific.

Then he realized who Reddington must have meant. ‘Poor fool on the ground’- that could only mean Gerald, who thought he held ticket number 1752.

“What about my watch,” Aram managed to stammer out.

“Ah,” said Red. And really, he did a marvelous job of appearing regretful, but Aram knew that he wasn’t. This was his entire fault, there was no denying it. “Yes, that really was a shame,” Red continued, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “A real, real shame. But we all have to make sacrifices in the line of duty, isn’t that right Aram?”

As Reddington unwrapped the handkerchief, Aram really did gape. Nestled in the soft fabric were small pieces of broken metal and glass – pieces, that if looked at closely enough, resembled Aram’s rather expensive watch.

“Now,” said Red, leaning back in his seat and placing the broken watch between them. “We should get back to the Post Office, the others have probably retrieved the USB by now, and I have another case.” He smiled conspiratorially, and began to talk about a kid that had been found in a grocery store, eating like a wild animal.

But Aram didn’t want to think of Blacklisters for the moment, and blocked out Red’s words. All Aram could see in his mind was poor Gerald, lying on the filthy linoleum under the merciless eye of three red digits, waiting for a number that was never going to be appear. Perhaps he would end up broken like the watch, left to lie useless in a place he didn’t really belong.

To be totally honest, Aram felt a little faint.


End file.
